Sniper
by Tarkus the Jaguar
Summary: Who needs to be a hero? Taylor gets a sniper rifle and delusions of grandeur.
1. Shadow Stalker

**Hey! Standard disclaimer, etc. Please read the next bit, it's kinda important**

 **Disclosure: Consider this a warning about two things. First, if the story continues according to plan (which I have no reason to think it won't) there will be a pretty dark ending, mostly through implication. Second, this story will not make it to Golden Morning, as there is a definitive end point well before then (Even though I won't be following the stations of canon like, at all)**

 **Make of that what you will :)**

 **For anyone who reads my other stuff, I haven't abandoned it yet, just need a break, and have been working like 40 hours a week. Sucks, man. It'll probably take a while for the next updates in those ones. This one will be rather short, and is kinda mindless fun to get me back into writing.**

 **I hope you enjoy! Any comments are welcome, however, if you post a criticism, please provide some manner of suggestion on improvement, or just be specific about /why/ you didn't enjoy it, as well as what you didn't enjoy :)**

* * *

Being a sniper was weird. Not a problem most people would have to deal with, she couldn't imagine. The weirdest part was she hadn't sniped anyone, but she was still so sure of her identity. After waking up, there had been lots of distractions. Something about a hospital, and her father, and a mental ward – it all blurred together after a few weeks. Especially with the itching, oh, that horrible, relentless itching. An itch to pull a trigger and end a life. Gods, it barely mattered who, anymore.

Eventually, there was some mention of a money shortage, and she was set free. After those weeks, there were a few orders. Weird ones, but orders.

Attending school was less boring than waiting in a hospital bed, at least. Not for the lessons, gods no. Nor was it for the constant posturing, and threats, as amusing as it was to watch. Some of it felt familiar, three people in particular, but she didn't really care. They interacted with her a lot. So, friends, probably. Certainly, they hunted her down and spent time with her, one time they were even kind enough to give her a shower. With clothes on, but still a shower. Like with her father, the lack of any reaction seemed to make them _more_ determined.

A sniper was nothing if not patient, and focused. Still, without a target, the constant nuisances would've been unbearable. But she had a target.

One of the three who kept interacting with her. Whenever she looked at them, there was that brief flicker of negative recollection, followed by a surge of joy. More than a month with no clear goal, and now, the girl was a target. Nothing seemed to set her apart from the other two, except for skin colour, but she didn't give a shit about that. There didn't need to be an indicator. It was a target.

By comparison to her time in the hospital, the next few weeks _flew_ by. Studying every moment, without raising suspicion. Playing _the game_. Watching nervous habits, and ticks, developing a profile of it. After some tinkering with scraps of chemical, layering with a special mark. No matter the distance, through a scope, she would fine The Target. Despite the focus on it, they weren't a person, anymore. Her itching was still there, if contained. Something in the back of her mind made her think taking a life should be frowned upon, but every step planning the act brought elation.

It was amazing, how ending the life of another was what would give hers meaning.

For her first time, she intended to do it right. That was how she ended up following The Target through the night, dressed in it's costume. Talking with others in costumes. She recognised the others, vaguely. One more than others; Vista, someone who could warp reality. Oh, the possibilities were endless. Another, Clock, could pause time… and line up the perfect shot. Weirdly, they didn't carry guns.

Which was her other problem. It would take a fine gun to take The Target down. A dirty bullet from a mud-covered revolver wouldn't do. The world was cruel, death shouldn't have to be. Building something would take a lot more care than throwing together random chemicals, so even though information gathering was nowhere near its end, she started.

Every waking moment was spent analysing the target or working to their downfall. She couldn't describe how peaceful, how fulfilling, that was. Sometimes, The Target would return to it's HQ, where she couldn't follow. A perfect time to work on the schematics, while waiting for it to exit – usually having changed clothing. One time it stayed the night.

Annoying, but she'd made great headway into her schematics. If only the cold hadn't been so prevalent.

After a week of surveillance, she felt confident. The Target travelled in packs, and was rarely alone, but that wouldn't matter. No one was alone down the barrel of a sniper. Phasing through objects didn't help if you never saw them coming, so the weird quirk it had was worthless. To it. She would probably kill for that, there were so many applications. Especially since it applied to fired projectiles, for roughly 0.743 seconds. Likewise, the intangibility took 0.219 seconds from start to cover torso. A decent window, but it meant changes to her schematics. No real habits for bathroom breaks or eating. Mild consistency in night and day locations. What was most interesting, was an upcoming event, where it would be before a crowd, surrounded by its allies.

Seven weeks, her face had remained a neutral mask. It twitched upwards.

For a first target, it was important to do things right. Just as important to make people take notice. There would never be another chance quite like it, to stir up a crowd, to deliver her lethal silence to an unsuspecting victim. Even the rumour of a sniper would make people just a bit more paranoid. Snipers like her, that was. Not like the 'Militant' lady, who bore arms, and never killed.

For her to make the event, the gun would need to be sped up, and corners would need to be cut. That didn't mean the target could leave her sight, so the first thing she finished was her scope. Then, she called in sick, and spent her days working with what little she'd been able to scavenge, one eye locked at the targeting reticule.

The target strayed from less than one kilometre away, to more than one hundred and seven, in expected routes. As long as there were no unexpected changes to routine, things would proceed smoothly.

She could have finished effortlessly, with more than enough time. But a thought had come to her. Why should she hide in the shadows, content with a simple spray of blood, and the end of a life? Surely, there was something she could do, short on time as she was.

With two days remaining, a thing of beauty was finished. Not perfect, by any means – a disappointment. To her. But to the observers… her bullets would make up for a failure, she hoped. Her whisper wasn't aesthetic enough. Stable for a shot, and functional, but with strict limits on its capabilities. Four shots was all it would get before needing a repair. Despite this, a lotus lay engraved onto the side, and each of the four bullets, her one and only concession.

Whisper was bronze, and dull grey. There was no real grip, and the trigger was a straight bar. Even polished to a sheen the discoloured, uneven metal would never be a thing to admire, though it was quaint, in a way. Some parts near the chamber were missing, a passable substitute to eject spent rounds. Some of it's many rings could be spotter on the inside of the barrel, if one looked at the right angle. Some pieces were broken, when she'd found them. But it was a weapon. All in all, the gun was longer than her arms, and just as thick.

Despite the weight bearing down on her, slung over one shoulder, her step was light as a feather, with twenty-six and a half hours until the event.

Close rooftops, likely even _far_ rooftops would be monitored, and searched. But just under a kilometre away was a multistorey building, with a storage closet that, for some reason, had a window pointed the right direction.

Twenty-four hours until the event, her stage was set. She returned to her sniper's perch.

Between her and the stage were buildings. From a perfect angle, aiming through six windows, just past a lamppost, and less than a millimetre from the edge of a building, she had a total of four inches to fit the one-and-a-half-inch projectile. In other words, just enough for her to get an angle on the whole stage.

Eighteen hours until the event, and her speakers started to pick up noise. No traps. There hadn't been time, and they would give the game away, get the event cancelled. But a shitty, broken phone? 'Disabled' radios? No one even bothered to check them. Nothing interesting was coming through, but one of the hidden ones would give her audio of the stage. Hadn't been found yet.

Twelve hours in they had finished setting up patrols, and the faceless, armoured grunts were instead methodically sweeping the area. Every room within four hundred metres. Every rooftop for nine hundred. Despite how clear the area near the stage was, there had been lots of cover left in the area. Smart. An appearance of cleanliness, and space, while actually having the place shut off from most directions.

Seven hours in, speakers one, three, four and seven picked up more audio as PRT snipers set up their own equipment in two of the more ideal sniper's dens, and two rather well-hidden ones. If they weren't in pairs, to prevent boredom, you'd have almost commended them.

Four hours, twenty-six minutes, nineteen seconds. One of the masked people, some 'Master of Arms', had entered the scene, doing last minute, very thorough checks. Another smile crept onto your face. Certainly, he might become a worth opponent, given… incentive. But he was too passive, and careless. Too efficient to waste time. Three of your decoy speakers were dealt with, as well as one functional one. No suspicion, just random pieces of junk that could, theoretically be dangerous.

Two hours, two more masks and a camera crew arrived.

Eighty-three minutes, she was starting to get nervous. Not in a recalcitrant way. There would be no hesitation. She allowed herself a slight shift, to ease the butterflies.

"Smile, everyone is watching…" she muttered. Not true in a literal sense, but it would still be her performance. Her chance to steal the show. Most importantly, a chance to end The Target. Publicly. As wonderful as it would be to use her most powerful bullet last, to ward off danger with the first three and instil panic, instead, it was chambered, and ready to fire. With better equipment, in the future, she could have more theatrics. For now… with a window that small? The first shot would kill it. Her three normal shots would go unused, most likely.

Fifty-four minutes, more reporters, and the target had begun to move in that general direction.

Thirty-Eight minutes, crowds were properly forming, and The Target, and multiple masks were waiting backstage.

Maybe stage wasn't accurate. Armoured walls thick enough to block her shot, in a fortified above-ground bunker would be more technical. But she preferred stage.

Twelve minutes before the event. Rifle up. All but three of her speakers turned off, as planned, running out of battery. Only the two to listen out for things near her location, and one near the Protectorate's stage. A deafening, meaningless din was ringing out almost silently, having to travel quite a ways to reach her speaker.

Negative three minutes. Noise had started properly, a grand, enthusiastic announcement, meaningless in nature.

Negative four, The Target was on the stage, and her finger itched, alongside some other masks. Second from the left, of eight total, in a 'v'. Her shot was lined up, against a stationary target.

There would be three leftover bullets, it seemed.

"…will continue to keep our city safe." The speaker rung out, transmitting a charismatic, empty voice, with charismatic, empty words.

As the mindless cheering begun, a single retort rang out. Dead centre of the collarbone, with shattered windows.

4.391 seconds later, the target shifted one inch to their left, an idle fidget. Whisper's bullet buried itself into her throat, pulsing with an arcane light for one moment. Then, a painting formed on the wall behind her, as she fell.

If it had been one fourth of a second faster, the shot would've been perfect. Something to note for future versions, slightly too slow – but a hard balance. Too much faster, it would've been one millimetre to the _other_ side of the neck.

Screams rang out, muffle from distance. The masks sprang into action, as did the soldiers, spreading out after 0.797 seconds of shock, looking for the culprit. Against all odds, Master of Arms' visor looked in her direction.

Two spare bullets, them. A normal one scratched against his foot, eliciting a curse and a dash for cover. Vista had warped the body out of the way, a right shame that – it had completed the picture. The slightly imperfect picture. Her lotus, ruined by a bored twitch, the final action through which her target would be remembered. How droll.

There was another scream of agony as her bullet's secondary effect went off, launching fragments of enhanced wires into the first responder. Not quite lethal. Little permanent damage. Likely the reason had shot had been delayed those 0.391 seconds, but worth it, to paint a much more minor picture into the skin of whoever it had hit. Nothing fancy, just a simple mosaic, and a message.

Shooting one last look at her broken lotus, an immeasurable sense of satisfaction ran through her, before she finally scooped up her rifle and left. It wouldn't do to get caught; that would ruin the magic, and her chance of a second act.

Still… one thing was bugging her. Not the mistakes. For a rookie, some imperfections were… unavoidable. No, for there to be a performance, there had to be an audience. If not directly, then at least someone who could make a difference. An opponent, someone to witness, and appreciate her art. But it had to be sporting, or they'd grow bored. Desensitised. Desperation would add such a tension to her. And already, she could sense her next target. For the third time, a smile creeped on her face.

Using the spent shells as a paperweight, Taylor scrawled out a note, and left it in view. On the side, a quick sketch of a lotus, and a flared signature. Not her name. The name of one who would become larger than life.

With that, she left – or she risked being caught. That would ruin the fun, and the show.

 **(9 0 _ 0 9)**

It took six minutes for Armsmaster to reach the building and storm the stairs. They would be gone, he knew they would. But he would never forgive himself for not trying. Losing a colleague hurt. But he had never lost a ward under his command. Until then. His first action was to scan for traps, they'd seen him coming. Had shot at him. Deep down, he knew that it wasn't to kill, or he'd be dead. Their first shot had been tinkertech, what had grazed his foot was a normal bullet.

No traps. No fingerprints, or DNA, from his preliminary scan. No sign of the culprit bar an immaculate note, propped up by ejaculated casings, mocking him with it's presence. Taunting him.

Not yet. First, a recorder flicked on, and he analysed the room. With no one else nearby, coldness ran through his voice.

"Preliminary observations on the crime scene, temporary designation 'sniper's nest', April Fourth, two thousand and eleven. Armsmaster on site, reporting and recording before altering any evidence. The lock of the door was broken. It is doubtful the unnamed parahuman, temporarily designated 'Locus' for this recording, holds any connection to the building."

There was a long pause as his eyes swept the room, allowing his visor to record its state. Finally, he walked to the shattered window.

"Codename Lotus has so far exerted these inhuman feats. Thinker three; a shot that should've been impossible, even to trained snipers, almost matching the longest recorded shots by non-parahumans. Both shots were taken with flawless accuracy, the first striking less than an inch from perfectly centred, and the second being a warning shot. Both were taken through multiple layers of windows. Tinker thre – tinker four, or blaster four. Whatever rifle used ignored the effects of gravity and wind or would've impacted buildings. Shot one had additional effects, crippling and blinding hero Vista, who was extracting the… victim. Non-lethal, possibly by intent, and carved deep in a way that would have caused minimal scarring."

It hurt, to have to analyse the situation. To think about their capabilities. But the more they knew about whoever was responsible, the sooner Colin would be able to take them down. That in mind, he picked up the note. Reading it left his teeth clenched, and somehow made the whole thing worse. Because even with how immaculately prepared the violent murder of a teenager under _his_ care had been, even having taken the time to taunt him by note… there was no visible motive.

~ (It seems a little birdy has sharp eyes… my next show)

(will have to bear something worth admiration, then.)

(I hope you'll forgive a painter's slip with a brush. Art)

(shouldn't be tarnished by my fault, I know. To serve)

(as apology, I'll allow insight to my next performance) ~

~Regards, Jhin~

He growled, fist tightening by his side. An elegant lotus marked a desire for him to turn the page.

Any information was another step to taking them down, he reminded himself. If they were crazy enough to already be planning a second target, and stupid enough to leave a hint, he would do anything he could to shut them down. Should their target be another of his wards…

Even if there was no kill order, he would stop them.

~ (Nine godless animals,)

(One safe through plea)

(An attack dog was caged)

(But death sets them free)

(Eight pups remaining)

(One bound to a hate,)

(Reset through oppression)

(No more were there eight) ~

"Concluding the recording of preliminary observations," his cool voice rang out. There was a slight click, before he buried his fist in a wall, and screamed in anguish.

* * *

 **Sorry that I couldn't format the 'poem' correctly. makes that hard. If you want to read it with decent indentation for whatever reason, just head over to SV.**


	2. Alabaster

**I'm glad people seem to like it. I hope not to disappoint xD Slight clarification: Poem has nothing to do with the nine. Legitimately a coincidence. The number nine comes from something else. Also, thanks Assassins Stole My Pants for pointing out a typo.**

* * *

An outstanding arrest warrant had been issued. The looks on his team's faces when he'd told them that… if it were possible, he'd say they'd fallen. But it was hard to fall from rock bottom. For one moment, he hated being in charge.

No kill order. Not even a provisional one, for if 'Jhin' struck another of the children he was sworn to protect. After six hours of paperwork, the sheet had been processed in record time, with a resounding 'no' from an automated filter. Apparently, only having one singular death attributed to them was enough for the form to be rejected on principal, before it even reached the Chief Director's ears. Director Piggot had offered to inquire further for him, but the message was clear.

As much as it bit him, it was very, very clear. Unless they did something worse, they would have to play with the kiddy gloves. And no matter how personal the matter got, he would never 'accidentally' let himself slip. Nor would any of the others. Triumph, possibly, but he didn't have a killing bone in his body. Battery, she was too soft. All of them had minor things like that.

For him, it was the thought of what would happen to his career, as much as it was about avenging _his_ ward. The thought made him sick. He despised the thought. But you couldn't hide from the truth.

Disturbing accusations had come up about Shadow Stalker, too. Problems about her school. Horrendous, horrible accusations, such as a years-long bullying campaign in her leaked civilian identity, and the usage of lethal bolts on solo patrols. If he ever found who was behind the leak, he… wasn't sure what he would do.

It was a disaster the PR team would be spending months cleaning up.

Somehow, a ward being _killed_ had fallen to the side, in light of that. Some were calling it justice. Truly, it was amazing to him. Just how easily people talked ill of the dead. As though, even if everything she'd been accused of was true, that somehow changed her death from a murder into something legal. Something moral.

Something not worth talking about.

The accusations had come out remarkably quickly. That helped. Because now, at least, he had a lead – a minor one. The chanced of Sophia's killer being the one to post it evidence was low. But there could be no half measures. Not for something like that.

Colin Wallis had someone to talk to.

* * *

 **(90_09)**

* * *

For the rest of theday, her elation never dipped. Not for one moment did the smile leave her face, and periodically she would break out into laughter that, had anyone else been around, likely would've made them concerned. Finally, she had accomplished something. And even though it hadn't been a full day, she was getting thrilled by the prospect of performing again. But, there was a problem, even if it wasn't enough to dip her good mood.

Nobody knew who she was.

Sure, she'd made a splash. The death was attributed correctly, and threads and news programs couldn't stop talking about her. Having an enthralled audience gave a warm feeling, in her chest. However, no one had a face to put to the name. Most didn't even have a name, yet. Having art appreciated was one thing, the most important thing, but she couldn't stop there. Painters shouldn't hide behind their brush, and while being a bogeyman had its appeal, there was… _something_ about the more personal touch.

It couldn't be her actual face. People wouldn't take her seriously. She knew she was bland, and uninteresting, but that was a good thing for reconnaissance. For performances, she needed something better. Even with extremely limited funds, it was easy to acquire some cheap clay from the boardwalk. A full costume would be needed. Like her whisper, most of that could be made from what scrap she'd been salvaging. But a mask? That needed detail, and effort. Finding a suitable heat sorts to harden it would be difficult, if her father hadn't had a small furnace in the basement. Well, not an actual furnace, but it would serve as one.

Her way home was uneventful. Not really unexpected. She was just… average, no one had any reason to bother her. The self-proclaimed 'father' wasn't home, so she got to work. Not on the clay, but with her notepad. Making a decent costume would take a while. But that didn't let her stop the hunt. It would take some doing, finding a villain, at least more than finding a hero. Starting that night would be a good bet. In the back of her mind, there was a tiny, directional niggle. Without the chemicals, her scope was useless, but the niggle had been changing direction with every step, and every second. There lay her target.

Finding them wasn't the hard part – finding where they would _be_ , on one, fateful day was what took effort. Deciding where their impactful part would be played. Where it would be noticed. Not a rally. Striking the same stage twice would set a pattern, not to mention be unprofessional. It had to be somewhere she could set up a _proper_ show, with someone to witness her. Not just the shot, _her_. Getting a balance between witness and people stopping her could be a challenge. Her best solution would be some kind of recording device.

But, she was getting distracted. None of that was relevant, until she had the target's behaviours, and had marked them.

Thought, given how tough to put down her next target would be, it could be easier to just kidnap them, and record it in private. An easy way out, but it _would_ let her introduce herself right, without any worry of interruption. No last minute twitches. Far less sporting than she'd like.

Once again, she was getting ahead of herself.

It was tempting to put off the target and focus on finishing everything. The mask, her Whisper, and the second, and third guns. But all she _needed_ was Whisper and the costume, so that was all she would wait for.

Whisper had been damaged more than she'd expected. While the firing mechanism was untouched, part of the barrel had fallen off. Instead of making three, it might be easier to just make Whisper's barrel removable, so it could double as her hand cannon. A grenade launcher was… optimistic, even though it was more 'single explosive' launcher, than a proper one. Plans started to come to her. Not for the guns themselves, she knew what she needed for them, short on materials though she was. No, not the guns, for the performance.

Her first sketch was finished, just as there was a knock on the door. That was unusual. Her father had a key, and no one else had reason to visit. After a while her no reaction, there was _another_ knock, a bit more forceful. Rude. It also showed they wouldn't be going away any time soon, so it might be better to get it over with. She wasn't even in costume. You didn't just… come backstage, you waited for the show to start.

Grabbing the pepper spray her father had insisted on buying when she started running (a sniper had to be mobile), and stuffing her notebook into a random drawer, she made her way over. The smile settled to a more neutral expression, as she cracked it open…

And came face to face with -

Well, that was unexpected. Time to put on a mask of a different kind, she supposed.

"Mr. Herberry? Yea, I just need a signature for this. Yep, thanks. Right, have a nice day."

Somehow, she stopped the bafflement from showing. Since when did her father even purchase things? Let alone for delivery. When opened, it appeared to be some kind of blender. With him out, she could always hide it down stairs, and he'd be none the wiser.

It would delay her lack of materials issue by a few more days, at least.

* * *

 **(90_09)**

* * *

Even though she'd found the man in white that evening, it only took three days to properly observe him, before her pattern was clear. They were a wily one. No consistent pathways, but each night they returned at a time, to a place. A single habit of little variation, easy enough to plan around. What was a bit more difficult was the fact that every 4.201 seconds, his body would undo whatever damage it had taken. Oh, the possibilities. Her instincts told her to take him down right after the reset, hard. She liked her instincts.

Getting the timing right was difficult, but that night, she managed to assemble it. Her first trap. Flawless. It had only taken almost the entire blender to put together well. Even if Whisper was tinged in bronze, her trap had to be perfect, for it's one, fleeting moment.

Taylor's traps were strange things. Delicate, ornamental lotuses, on a hairspring trigger. They didn't detonate immediately, instead creating a mirage, and a warning. One that most wouldn't be able to put to good use. One second's hesitation at the strange change in light, and it would be too late.

She hoped it worked. If she weren't working with scrap, it would've been easier, but to make something so delicate, from so little, it took a lot of care.

Oh, what she'd do for better materials. The things she could make. Like a voice modifier, to add a joyous resonance to her speech. Sadly, she had neither the funds, the time, nor the sources. Waiting too long between performances would dull the hype.

After making something so flawless, throwing together four more bullets was nothing. Her only meaningful challenge was the fourth. One to three didn't matter, but four took a bit of time, weaving to painting-to-be, even if not for her current target. Six bullets total, one of them was special. But she didn't load the four bullets. Leftovers would be enough to draw a target into a trap.

On instinct, she checked the compass, only to pause. A smile made its way onto her face, followed by raucous, wheezing laughter.

When she'd shot the normal bullet at Armsmaster, it had sprayed his armour, and his beard. Only a tiny speck, not the full body, so usually pointless – especially with him being an esteemed member of her audience. But no, the niggling in her mind, where her target would be… it was almost a perfect overlap. Through some miracle, it was like the stage was setting itself. Clearly, someone above must be enjoying her work as much as she did.

Never let it be said she'd refuse the call to an encore.

It was an absurd distance. But according to one of the phones she'd stolen, there was at least half an hour until the targets crossed paths. More than enough time to set up.

As it turns out, the phone had been recording, for whatever reason. Must've bumped it in her pocket. The playback was her insane laughter. Yet another blessing in disguise, there could be a use for that, later. With better equipment, if she could ever get it.

The night streets were cold, but her heart was pumping in excitement. Putting on her ornate mask dulled that to a cool professionalism. Adding the cloak's weight, even thrown together from fabric salvaged from old clothes, finalised the image. Even with her undignified sprint, she felt graceful. Powerful. No one was around to see anyway, so speed was more important than form. A chance like that couldn't be passed up.

Her trap sung to her. Tonight, it would fulfil its purpose, in a beautiful painting.

* * *

 **(90_09)**

* * *

Even at an ungainly sprint, she had barely made it. The secondary target was still nearby. Closer than they'd been when she left. Doing a patrol of some kind, and they must've doubled back. Just close enough for some noise to attract them. Primary would round the street corner in less than ten seconds. She coiled her trap, flicking on the mechanism, and planted it with great care, stepping away immediately. To her, it was visible. Not to others, she knew. Final position time. Her nervousness was swallowed, as she stood under a street light.

It rounded the corner, saw her, and paused. No costume on, so not a perfect event. It would do.

At first, it was cautious, but didn't know her. A gentle approach, and a cautious hail, try to start a conversation. Taylor could think of one thing to talk for her.

The first of two bullets rang out, impacting dead centre of the chest. A simple shot, nothing fancy to it – why bother, when it wasn't to kill? Through being fired, its purpose was to start a fight, and to let out that deafening bang she expected without the silencer, which was part of her extended barrel. Even then, it was loud. As a hand cannon? Without the mask, her ear drums would've burst.

Okay, maybe she was exaggerating a bit. Not by much.

Its body collapsed, and she counted. Right on time, it got back up, then charged her.

"Shall we dance?~" Her voice rang out. No guns. It hadn't been expecting a fight. Still had a knife though.

It would've been too easy to have set the trap in its path, end things then and there. But that would defeat the point of a costume. Knives weren't much threat. They sounded like they should be, but it was effortless, ducking and weaving through sloppy swings. She'd never known fighting could be such a joy. And so… inelegant.

Instead of retaliating, at all, Taylor took a glimpse into her scope. A distant howl on an engine had started. Time to set up the main event.

Before, her dance had been of necessity, nothing more. Now, it held purpose. Too direct, and she'd give away the game. Too slow, she might be stopped. Of course, there was a much simpler way of doing things, of goading an opponent into doing something stupid.

Her next dodge was 'mistimed', and the knife dug into her right shoulder. Meaningless. At worst, it would bring discomfort – with no nerves touched in places that would have an impact. Not even a falter in her grip. One a false grunt of pain was more than enough to elicit more empty dialogue from the target, and to justify her carefully measured 'stagger' backwards.

The target was talking. Two steps to the right, then a third, and raise her pistol.

Target two's engine screeched around the corner. One was reacting to it, but they'd already made their mistake. It was already over.

After all, they were part way through a step. By itself, that wouldn't take them in range of the trap. But all she needed was some momentum, to work with. Shot two buried itself in its right leg, toppling them forwards. 0.203 seconds before their face trigger her trap's timer. She leapt backwards into a second street light. Primary let out a screech of pain, and secondary shot a glance her way. With a careful eye and a glowing laugh, she watched.

Just under four seconds later, the bullet wound reset, and Armsmaster had started to say something to her. Alabaster didn't even get to register the fact, because two microseconds later, her trap denotated. Instinctively, she knew he wouldn't get back up.

From up close, it was beautiful. A spray of blood, in a carefully planned pattern… even the headless corpse couldn't take away from the gorgeous tree, carved across the ground. But she couldn't stay to appreciate it. Armsmaster was horrified, for just one moment. Taken up by the suddenness. Letting out a shallow breath of ecstasy, she slipped away, dropping a piece of paper she'd scrawled on. Not her current show. That would stand for itself. But another hint of what was to come.

* * *

 **(90_09)**

* * *

He wasn't sure what he'd been thinking. Probably for some way to get his mind off things. But unsurprisingly, interviewing each of the guests at the… fateful press conference hadn't routed out the killer. Of course it hadn't. Colin knew where the killer had been, during the conference. It hadn't been in the crowd. No, they'd been impossibly far away, crafting message to taunt him, remind him of his failures. A little poem claiming to have 'set Sophia free'.

They either had high confidence in themselves, or low confidence in him, to post a clue about their next assassination. One he and Dragon had been able to see through pretty quickly. Not one he could do anything about, assuming it was accurate.

What the hell could he even do to protect someone like Alabaster? He was an empire cape. Who could survive being shot lethally. Arrest him? Easier said than done. A small part of him didn't _want_ to protect him. To save one murderer from another. Even if only one of them had killed a ward.

But despite his mental anguish, there really was nothing he could do, other than patrol slightly closer to empire territory, and hope to catch Jhin in the act. A two for one of murderous villains. One week ago, the thought would've brought a spark of joy, and determination. Now, it was hollow. All he could hope for was to put the psycho behind bars before they took another one.

He hadn't expected it to work, deep down. Which was why a deafening, _familiar_ gunshot took him so off guard. Nothing like the crack of an ordinary firearm. Less than a kilometre away, and this time, not shot towards him. His body was still in shock, for one moment. Then, professionalism kicked in, and he moved.

"Armsmaster to Miss Militia. Shot fired near my current location. Audio is concurrent with the parahuman 'Jhin'. What's the status on backup?"

"Triumph here. I heard the shot, eta about three minutes."

There was a moment's pause, and he hoped it wouldn't come to that. Despite the fire in the teen's voice. Not an adult. Legally, he was, but to Colin, he was a kid. Had been a kid, until a few months ago. He'd already seen one of his wards die.

"Velocity can get there in less than two."

"Affirmative, Militia. Triumph, do not engage. I repeat, do not engage."

Not even a moment's static, before the well-justified complaint started to come through. He needed to emphasise his position before Triumph did something stupid. Like turn off his comms, and the wards sometimes did. Feign not having received their last orders. Not here.

" _Triumph_ , do not engage. Enemy parahuman will be striking with lethal force. I have armour, Velocity is mobile. Repeat, do NOT engage."

He hoped the desperation didn't leak through. There was a moment's pause.

"U-understood, sir."

"Good man," he whispered.

His bike rounded the corner. Standing in a spotlight was a masked figure. Not a normal mask, either – an elaborate, full-face one. Armsmaster's eyes shot to the bloodied body near their feet. Inhumanly white features, but no costume. Was that –

Alabaster reset, and his head exploded, the blood forming distinct, impossible pathways.

…

…

…

He didn't reset again.

Colin's eyes shot up, but the other parahuman was gone. A curse slipped out, and he revved his bike. But no, there would be no point. Too many wasted actions. It couldn't keep happening.

"Velocity, search the area for a masked figure. If located, alert me immediately."

"Copy."

If a speedster couldn't find them, he would have no hope. If anything, he would be getting in the way of the search.

They'd left a piece of paper. No traps. The last one had shown up on his sensors. Both of them. But both times, he'd been too surprised.

There was no trap on Alabaster's body. No, apparently that was a one-off thing, to maim and scar Vista. Panacea had healer but, she whenever she was alone, she was still shaking.

He picked it up.

~(And so we meet again, birdy.)

(You must be eagre to see my)

(work. I trust, this time, to not)

(be found lacking. Art is fickle.)

~ Yours, Jhin.

(Little Foxie, runs away)

(Prays in a false heaven)

(A layered guard, a deep façade)

(T'was the last for mister seven)

"Velocity, any signs?"

"No, sir. Nobody at all in the nearest five blocks."

It would be wonderful to dismiss that as them being a stranger. But no.

"Militia, see to it Jhin's thinker rating gets raised. It can't have been chance for them to get past Alabaster's power. No update on Tinker rating."

"Understood, stir."

He revved his bike again.

"Velocity, keep sweeping. Anything moves, I want to know about it five minutes ago. I'll look for hiding spots."


	3. Coil

As the warmth of victory faded, exasperation began to replace it. Not at her performance, it's only flaw was her not being to let into the world her budding laughter. But they would've caught her if she had. It wasn't even because she was almost out of materials, _again_ , after building one more fourth bullet. Which, given how long they survived, she made a mental promise to use. Start adding drama. Number three would be perfect for that. Or, he would be horrid. Less than four hours from her last kill, and she'd already tracked down number three.

That was the source of her exasperation. Three was a cheating bastard.

Taylor was watching the outside of a defended apartment complex, guarding a sleeping ex-military person. That, or she was watching a hidden underground bunker on the other side of town. Which? Couldn't be sure. Fucking, cheating thinkers, it was giving her a horrendous headache.

Stepping to the right to lean against a wall… no, to the left onto a bench that… wasn't there? Her body bumped against the ground. If only she'd brought her extra bullets, instead of being an idiot, that annoyance could go away then and there. Then again, she wouldn't do it even if she could. Annoyance was a thing. Professionalism was a much more _important_ thing. And the experience wasn't all together useless, something to note was how clearly her mental beacon was guiding her. Which was just as well, because splashing three with chemicals would be almost impossible, without giving the game away.

Paranoid, thinker asshole, with their personal bodyguards. They weren't a threat, she just didn't have enough bullets for all of them, and they probably wouldn't willingly share. All she needed was another expensive electrical appliance to dismantle for another, what, three bullets? The scraps of blender would be enough for one 'normal' one. Everything else she had could make one trap, six specials and nine normal. Assuming she dismantled everything in her house. Even then, there wouldn't be enough for a proper painting on one target. In theory, all nine of those bullets could be made into one more special… but something was niggling at her, something was going to happen.

And, of course, she'd rather not tear the house to shreds. It could get people suspicious. Plus… her scope was included in that 'everything', and she liked her scope. Not exactly necessary, but still valuable in utility. If her sense of where her targets where kept getting stronger… she would consider it. Until then, the scope stayed. With a long sigh, she started making her way home.

That was a journey through hell by itself, given how many things she bumped in to. Eventually she got the hang, it was strange to be running 'two' bodies at once. Hard to separate the actions to just one. At the same time, there weren't two of her, it was a strange feeling. To say the least, indescribable. Less having two bodies and more being in two places, but that still didn't cover it.

Her one condolence was that changing her cursed bullets didn't take resources. In other words, three was going to _suffer_. Especially given how hard finding a pattern would be. If it were just a death, a shot through the military-grade reinforced walls would take three out, but no. That would be a failure. She was a performer, frustrations were just part of the process, and she could afford however much extra time it took – as long as the performance was something special. Something to remember.

And there was a decent solution, if a bit on the distasteful side. Taylor couldn't trust herself to improvise, so there was a solution. All the performance would need was a script, and if three did anything that messed with her script, after all the effort it was going to take her?

Ow. She'd walked into another wall. She was almost together… almost. Being in two places was weird.

But back on topic. If three played along, they could have a beautiful, tranquil death. If they messed with her script, they would die screaming in unthinkable agony. Really, it was a win-win – either she could vent frustrations or save a cursed bullet. Given the right angle, even something more mundane could paint a picture.

For the curse, she'd have plenty of time, given all the time it would likely take to find a suitable path. Time that could be spent creatively.

The sort of two hers finally joined places, and she felt more solid. Real. Her fist clenched, and a quiet chuckle escaped her lips. Not too loud, didn't want to wake the neighbours. Oh, she should probably take off her costume, too. The blood splatter might raise questions. For storage, her closet would have to do.

It was getting late. Early, rather. Almost five. In retrospect, maybe she shouldn't have spent an hour still with frustration, and another hour confusedly navigating. But what was done, was done. She needed her beauty sleep, but that didn't invalidate what she'd accomplished. It just meant less time to spend productively the next day. What sacrifices she made for her audience.

They had been so good to her. Appreciative, from their faces. Certainly startled. Them hunting her down was a bit less appreciated, but not unexpected, and not hard to avoid. Predictable, square pathing, even at superspeed, wasn't hard to slip away from. There were these wonderful things called 'rooves', and beyond being able to cross between them, all one needed was knowledge of where she'd be out of sight. All in all, she'd gone a very strange route.

If she were honest, the hardest part had been climbing onto the first building. There were so many buildings near the industrial sector. Why two had apparently lived less than a minute's walk away, she didn't know, but it had played to her advantage. Even apart from escape routes, it made for a wonderful stage, with all its scenery. The next stage would not be. A depressing fact. Her changes of getting a paranoid thinker into a scenic spot while trying to assassinate them were slim, and it was a needless risk. So, her stage would be beneath her. That just meant she'd need to elevate it.

Maybe a second target on the same day? Except the logistics of that would be horrendous, especially if she wanted witnesses. Unless whoever four was decided to go out in broad daylight and make a mess of themselves, the methodical approach would have to keep going, and she'd just have to face disappointment. Something weird was running through her, in her stomach. Uncertainty. No, that wasn't right, but… she didn't know. It was horrible, and absolutely three's fault. She'd been feeling off ever since she'd found herself in two places, like a great weight was placed on her mind.

Taylor carved another notch into her cursed bullet. Even made in haste and anger, it was a meticulous, beautiful thing. Sinister, even to her, and she was only getting started. Quality over quantity. Running out of quantity meant she just needed an even higher quality. Easy fix. The only downside was three's bullet would be fixed once it was finished. A premade painting, and endless agony, to whoever she fired upon. Even if that wasn't three.

Sucks to be whoever took his place, should that happen.

After another hour's work, she sighed, and set her tools aside. Her whole body was tired. Where was the dedication, where was the enjoyment? Everything felt off, ever since three had done whatever they'd done. Bastard. Hopefully it was something that could be slept off, because she was even starting to feel tears build. Tears. For months now, she hadn't cried. Possibly longer. Everything before a certain point was just static-y blankness, after all. But Taylor had a streak going and breaking it would be a massive shame.

She crashed into her bed, forcing herself to think about her artwork. It was beautiful. It _was_ , or would be, whatever – no matter what that tinge of… revulsion? Guilt? Thought about it.

"… and that's all well and good, by I'm having trouble understanding why she'd go after the Empire. Any theories, Armsmaster?"

"It could be that she wanted to make it known she was unaffiliated with them, ma'am."

"If it _had_ been the Empire, they'd have _claimed_ it. As it is they've publicly denounced this… Jhin, if only for PR reasons."

"I'm just as lost as you, ma'am."

They'd been talking in circles for an hour. It was infuriating. And every time, it came down to one question; why? Jhin already had the enmity of every member of the PRT, Protectorate and Wards. Unless they were aiming to make people hate them, it made no sense. Though, given her 'style' of execution, that was possible.

A grotesque tree of brain matter and fragments of bone wasn't an image most sane, sensible people would use. Even more concerning was that she'd clearly known it would get past the cape's invulnerability. Thus, an upper Thinker rating, and a potential Trump rating. All of it unconfirmed. Even stranger was the choice in target. Of all the empire capes to go after, why Alabaster? He wasn't the most important, or dangerous, but nor was he an easy target. Nothing threatening to a sniper.

But Jhin had been up close and personal. That was how he was sure they were a 'she'. Despite how many of his colleagues had just assumed they were male, it turned out violent serial killers could be women, too. He honestly had no idea why everyone else had decided to decide they were male without confirmation. An understandable human instinct, but misinformation could get people killed. Armsmaster would hold himself to a higher standard than that.

Fucking psychotic bastard probably didn't even have a reason.

Not that he'd ever say something like that alone. Especially not to the PRT Director. That was where he and his colleagues differed, even if they didn't understand it. It was fine to think nasty things, or view a situation in negative light, as long as you didn't let it affect your job. From experience, it wouldn't. The major difference between being professional and throwing a tantrum, and something many of his co-workers could take to heart.

Director Piggot buried her face in her hands.

"Well, whatever their reason, there's nothing we can do that we haven't already been doing. If you get a chance to bring them in, take it. If not, play it safe, and keep me updated on any progress. This is going to be a massive headache, I can feel it already."

A node was enough reply. Nothing more to be said. As infuriated as it was to be told 'do nothing unless it doesn't put you at risk', he'd understood the reasoning then, and he understood it now. Even beyond the PR nightmare, and the Youth Guard's harassments, beyond takin gall of the wards off patrol until further notice…

Even boiling all of that away, a kid had died. One they were meant to protect. And unless they could establish a motive behind that murder, it was a meaningless death of convenience or whim. Some died against villains, many to Endbringers, but at least those deaths had purpose. A fight, where they'd been bested. There was nothing rewarding about catching a bullet with your forehead. No one had been saved, nothing accomplished, just death.

From a pragmatic standpoint, it wasn't worth risking a second death unless they thought Jhin would be a further threat to them. The moment they thought she would, in would come a kill order or reinforcements. Hopefully. At the least, there would be specific operations designed to bringing them in, but a sniper good enough at stealth to escape a speedster was someone that would be hard to contain. Victor was a similar case, but Victor didn't just go around blowing people's heads off.

And honestly, he was a much worse shot.

Piggot had said something, and he'd missed it. Thankfully, she seemed understanding, even sympathetic with his distraction.

"Dismissed."

Right. Armsmaster nodded, and turned heel.

If anything, sleeping had made it worse. That only left one option, to hope that killing him would solve it. Despite her earlier worries, three wasn't as hard to plan around as one had been. Not that one hadn't been vulnerable; experience was just helping. Knowing things on instinct and having put them into practice were totally different.

Most of the difficulty came from the constant splitting, every time she went after him. Each time, her feeling was getting worse, and now a general sense of dread was consuming her each time she went out.

The variant of three that stayed home would often leave, and visit a company, the PRT headquarters, or shops. Outside of that, it would also walk to its lair, where it would spend the day out of her reach. Metaphorically. A cursed bullet would pass through those walls like they weren't even there, and she damn well knew it. Once she had a vague schedule, it was easy enough to begin scripting the performance.

Nothing too specific. Thinkers would be hard to pin in a corner. But after five day's observation of three's brooding, she was fairly sure she could convince that iteration of three to follow her lead. The other… she would shoot. Over the days, one of the two would sometime disappear, though her 'second body' wouldn't until she re-joined herself. That was more painful than the normal warps. By a significant margin.

After all, the version of her with no target to hunt couldn't interact with anything, and she'd gotten stuck inside a building for hours, until the 'other her' had gotten close enough to guide herself. Ugh, the whole thing gave her a headache just thinking about it. However, it was still valuable to know – because that meant she could waste a bullet, and then get it back, because the 'other' her wouldn't have shot.

Of course, on the sixth day, when she decided to take action, Three's modus operandi changed, because fuck thinkers and everything they stood for, and both of them ended up brooding in their underground lair, chatting into a phone. Ten minutes of observation later, she decided she'd bring the show anyway. All it would take was to get one of him outside. And as much as she wanted to go quickly, patience was a virtue – patience, and meticulous planning. As such, she started by laying traps around the exits, with the exception of the front door. When she was ready, standing there would guarantee his attention.

Not her lotuses. Nothing that fancy, or expensive. No, mundane things, comprised of whatever scrap she could tear from nearby lampposts, and such. Spikes, mostly. It was more the principal of the thing than any kind of effectiveness.

Dozens of cameras were watching it, after all. Sure, dozens more littered most conceivable parts of the surrounding building but slipping past them was easy enough. You couldn't do nothing but showboat, sometimes stealth was necessary, and that came as naturally to her as shooting.

There was that weird, guilty feeling again. Ugh.

Doing things stealthily took hours, making her glad she'd started so early. It was past midday by the time most of her traps were finished, and by chance a van went speeding into one of the many garages. Both iterations. Not one she'd have bothered to trap, and just as well, couldn't tip off her prey until she was good and ready.

A process that only took ten or so minutes to complete, and then, one of her moved. The other lined up a shot, through metres of wall, and fired a curse bullet. The shell howled, and that version vanished.

Another version appeared, but both seemed shocked. They started talking to… something. Taylor could see them, not their surroundings. But, they had definitely noticed her.

"Ms. Alcott, what are the chances I die screaming in the next hour?" He asked, dreading the answer. Of all the fucking times for an interference, why now? One more day, and he'd have been able to take measures to subvert it.

 _In another timeline, Coil ran to one of his hidden exits. Apparently, it was less hidden than he'd thought, given a metal bar was blocking his way. After a moment's hesitation, he slipped under it, only for a sho-_

Collapsing that, he split again, this time making a break for an armoured vehicle.

 _Another shot._

"Sixty eight percent," Dinah replied, a look of shock spreading across her face. In one time line he started beating her. heck it was true. He didn't think she could lie… but better safe than sorry.

"I need to tell me how to avoid this."

"But… it-"

A raised fist, and a loaded gun worked wonders of persuasion. Her look of hope faded with the colours in her cheek.

"G-go ou- AH! Y-you, neeed to go out and, do as he says…"

Her voice became muffled screaming.

Well, that was a relief. Though Coil did _not_ appreciate someone demanding a meeting in such a way. After 'gentlemanly' talks, he was sure there would be a way to take out the rabid dog. Slowly. Painfully.

"Chances our intruder kills me if I do that?"

"Z-zero pe-rcent."

Not quite as bad as he'd expected, them. He would still make them pay, down the line, but it was always nice for things to have peaceful resolutions.

Despite having moved almost identically in his timelines, one of them ended abruptly with another bullet. _That_ was concerning. Someone who could see through his power like that… definitely couldn't be allowed to stick around. Originally, he would've been content to leave them be until he'd taken power, the death of Shadow Stalker had certainly helped his goals, weakening Piggot's position with each passing day. But this kind of threat couldn't stand.

Just in case, he split the timeline as he made his way out. Less than a second, one of them was shut down.

He gulped.

Very carefully dealt with, then. Already, it seemed, kidnapping Alcott had been a good decision. Coil didn't like taking the risk of sending the Undersiders out, after the fundraiser had been cancelled. They were not equipped to deal with the Protectorate. But, it had worked out – and who knew, they might even escape.

It took a few minutes to carefully leave his base. The 'front door', where they were standing, was far away from everything, just in case some stupid kid managed to find their way past the layers of security. Sure, it might sound hilariously unlikely, but it was a very real possibility that _had_ happened, back when he'd first started. That had quite the difficulty. But, eventually, he came face-to-mask with the serial killer.

"Jhin, was it? How mi-"

"Three," an echoing laugh replied. It was deep, and masculine, despite him being sure Jhin was female.

On instinct, he split a timeline to ask – a moment later he regretted that. Jhin didn't move. Not even a twitch. Their gun didn't raise, still resting on their side. A bullet carved into him from one side. One that had definitely been fired from the gun Jhin was holding. That made no sense, but nor did most powers, so it wasn't worth worrying about. Or, it was worth worrying about, but there were more important concerns.

A long moment passed without motion.

"Is there any particular reason you're here?"

Coil would have to be careful not to push too far, but Jhin still wasn't taking any moves, and apparently there was no chance of his actual death. Nothing he could do would change what was coming. Something he didn't think was possible.

"You have many things I might like. Electronics, construction tools… high grade metals."

Really? REALLY? That was even more insulting. They were planning to use him as a vending machine, or online shop. He didn't dare risk starting a second timeline to vent anger. Politeness was a must, especially with how much their body language had changed. The idea hadn't occurred to them until just then, he realised.

"Of course, I'm sure something can be arranged. It does seem odd for you to come all this way for such trivial things, however."

That got a gun to his face. Not the first time he'd had a gun pointed at him, and it wasn't even that scary of a gun, if he were honest. Except he'd felt it's bullet, and very much didn't want to any more times. If things went well, and he could take that, it would prove a valuable torture tool.

Of course, it was unforgiveable for it to have been used against _him_.

"Three minutes."

Coil's thumb flicked on a radio, and he gave his troops orders, dropping one of many codewords. They would deliver the goods, then a sniper would… end the threat.

Jhin snatched the radio out of his hand and started disassembling it. Rude, much. At some point, they had also stolen his hidden pistol. No chance to capitalise on the distract of them tinkering.

Less than a minute passed before Jhin's body stilled, and a semblance of control returned to them. There was a flicker of motion, as the gun raised to Coil's forehe-

 _Bang._

Something was wrong. Her whole body was cramped and hurting. That hadn't made her feel better at all, and there wasn't even an audience. Everything had gone wrong, it was a wasted performance. Stress was coursing through her, and adrenaline. No, no NO NoNononONoNOnONonoN̩͓̕o̪͝no̠̩̭̻͘N҉̶̨̻̯̹͔͔͉̞͚Ǫ̶̷̺̖̬̙͇͍̳̘̣͙̜̮̦̰͠N̴̢̛̺͚͙̘̼̭̙̼̬̠͓͖̗̦͘͢ͅͅƠ̵̴̬̩̗̭̳̩̼͎̼̞̞̖̻̕͘Ń̷̗͖̳̩͍̮̦̮̹̗̭̮͕̭̱̙͘O̵̹̫̱͚̺̥̠̲̖͖͕̤̕͡N̵̢̤̼̣̪͔̫͚̱̺͠ͅỌ̸̝̼̣͓͖͍̱͈̺̲͕̰̼̯́͝ͅ

Her vision faded, focusing on a single spot, far in the distance. Out of sight. She started to run.

* * *

(Six kits, consumed by a hunger)

(Who flail, aimless, in their void)

(A broken puppet, lost in strings)

(The final death that they enjoy)


	4. Regent

**Sorry for the delay. A friend passed away, so I wasn't in the right mood for a story about death. Should have more time, next update hopefully this week.**

* * *

She couldn't breathe. Literally. Her chest was rising and falling in a perfect rhythm, but there was no air going in or out, and it was hurting. Everything was cold and disjointed – mid run one of her legs collapsed on her, and it took multiple 'steps' for her to even notice. There was no pain. The only thing that worked normally were her eyes. They… were working normally? Seeing through walls was normal - _f̢́ú̶͜c̶͞k̢͠_ ǫ͟͏̢͠f̧f, ,̷͏̴ ̶̢͟m̸͡e̸̶̶m̵̧̀͠o̶̡͠͝r͠í̸̷̷e͢͝ś̷̴̢͝ - she was normal. Her body was just acting up… and she was arguing with herself. Who cared w͞h̕͢ơ̴ ͢ç͞a͟͞͝r͟e͜͠͠d͟ w̡̨̪͖͇̜ͩ̅͛̑͒̊̅͌h̷̸̷̛̬͙̯̥̯̥͖̟̭͈̱̦̜̞̥̤̺̤́ͩ͌̿͑͂ͭ̎ͤͥ̏̒͆̆͑̏̉ͫͨǫ̵̲̝̬̤̠̼̮̲̪͇̰̺̟̟͎̥̼̏ͦ̄ͩ̽̾̐̈̚͞ͅ ̷̶͙͖̖̫̫̫̫͇͙̫̜̪̜͙ͭ̈ͥ͑ͣͨ͑ͭ̊͞c̴̢̞̜̩̫̹̖̙̖̱͕̳͉͖͙͍͒̎̓͗ͬ͢͟͞a͒ͦ̓̈́̔́ͬ̚͏̵͓̠̳̫̯̞̘͍̺̕ȓ̸̴̈̇ͫ̎̑̌ͭͧͯ̎ͭ̒̋̋́̉̚҉̗̘͙͙͖ͅȩ̛͋̌ͬ͐̈̒ͧͭ̀҉̝͚̯͓́d̸͉̭͚̱̣̬͍̥̫͎̳̹͔̻͉͕̟̊͒̀̀ͥ͞͠ she just had to keep moving.

Even with Coil dead, there were two of her. It was just as agonising as she remembered, and she couldn't even control the other her, anymore. It was watching over, cold and impassive, and wasn't making any move to help her. Everything about her balance was shot. One foot in front of the other, Jhin.

There she went, talking to herself again. Or, no, not to her. She was…

…

…

Didn't matter. What mattered was moving quickly. Being late wasn't an option, for whatever it was she didn't want to be late to. Rgh, why was her body so unresponsive? And what had happened to her sense of touch? It felt like she was walking on nothing, because the ground was fake. Somehow. Each breath was fake, maybe that was why she couldn't breathe. No real air would be so disgusting, no real ground could be so non-present. Taylor's body moved on its own, dragging Whisper up to her chest. That was real. Solid. Half finished, but actually present in whatever screwed up non-world was around her. Nothing was wrong with her, it was the world's fault! It was playing tricks on her. Had to be.

At the same time, the world had been around longer than her. Thre̷e̸ ͜m̷oǹt͠hs _fifteen years_ wasn't a long time. Surely, at some stage it had been solid, so maybe nothing was wrong with her, but she had changed. Certainly, she couldn't have felt so literally empty for her whole life, otherwise she wouldn't have made it this far. Body spasms couldn't be normal, nor could random joints locking up mid motion. Thankfully, that was starting to fade, a bit, as she calmed, so maybe she'd just been having a panic attack. Taylor remembered, faintly, having had one of those before. Right before she had been… born?

At some point, she had wound up on a rooftop, overlooking some unimportant building, or another, as close to adjacent as possible. The streets were surprisingly quiet, though maybe that had something to do with the explosion in the distance, where she'd came from. No, never mind, that had only been a few seconds ago. There should be more than… seven familiar-ish figures, including one on top of the building she was overlooking. Ha, a fellow rooftop-goer. Someone was stealing her schtick.

Time to go through the forest and find what trees had been dropping new ones, then.

…Wow. Thankfully, she hadn't said that aloud. Even if no one would've heard her, still much less awesome than she'd envisioned.

Apparently, her target was in the building, and she gave them a once over. Some prince-y looking boy, one of four standing over a whole bunch of people she didn't care about. There was also Armsmaster somewhere in the group of seven… except… he wasn't there. Huh. Must've realised she'd tagged him and started replacing his armour, or something. But why give it to some other kid? Whatever, they were witnesses, that would do.

Whisper shot up to face the target and her finger – what was she doing?

The gun shifted to one side.

A humming passed through her, but not out of the mouth. Was she speaking from the mask? That hadn't been an intended feature. Other – not – her was watching, waiting for something.

What _was_ she doing, actually? Killing him, probably – but why? She didn't stand to gain anything, hell, she didn't even know his name. So that lead to the golden question of why she would want him dead. Even just generally, killing shouldn't be her first thought, especially not in front of so many people. But, no, again that couldn't be right, because just an hour ago she'd wanted people to be watching. Rgh, her head was hurting again, and something warm was starting to trickle down her chin. Hey, touch! A little bit. Progress.

Taylor didn't think she was a killer, but at the same time, she _had_ killed. Even enjoyed it. Honestly, she couldn't see anything wrong with the idea, but there was something wrong with her head. She could feel it, worming in the back of her skull. So, it was possible her thoughts weren't entirely her own. Still, that would be a dumb reason to not do something if they _were_ her own thoughts, so she just needed to figure out why.

The target and the other three who were standing were doing something. One of them was collecting weird bits of paper. Her fingers started to fiddle with the electronic in her hands as she watched. Weird bits of paper that were… currency. Unfamiliar to her, but somehow, she knew they were bits of currency, anyway. So, they were taking currency, while the three others intimidated everyone else present into not causing trouble. That was – bad?

So, if it wasn't something good, they were villains, which would make the people outside the bank villains to. No, because having that many people on lookout would be silly, especially with all of them facing towards the crime in progress and being mostly in one place. Heroes, then. She'd wanted to be a hero, a while ago.

The heroes were there to stop the villains, except they weren't doing that yet. Heroes stopped villains, and she wanted to be a hero. That didn't sound entirely right. Something was still really wrong with that, but even without knowing what, it felt a lot closer to the truth than her wild ramblings before.

Something either resonated or churned within her. One of the two.

Other, not-her had moved down to the base of her building, and was looking back up at her, expectant. It was still there, somewhere in her head, but everything was confusing, and hurting, and she didn't want to go looking. Ever her body was only occasionally under her control, looking through her head was asking for trouble. Speaking of, she was now in the process of falling, her body having stepped off the edge of the rooftop.

Naturally, other-her shifted to one side and let her hit the ground. She'd have done the same thing. Some sickening crack came from her legs, but that didn't matter, and it didn't hurt, so it couldn't have been serious. The group of heroes had looked over to her, real-her, which was bad because the impact and jostled the mask off, and that warm liquid wasn't coming from her chin anymore, she was coughing it all over the ground.

Other her was holding the mask. Not offering, but not withholding it. Just waiting, still, for her to chose.

One of the heroes had started moving towards her but gesturing vaguely in their direction with Whisper got them to stop, so that was good. In the retrospect of literally one second afterwards, it might not have been a good idea to threaten them with a gun, but it had worked, even if they were seemingly preparing to attack her. No matter, from the movements inside the building, there wouldn't be enough time for them to fight. Her emptiness was still coursing through her, and her body was getting less and less responsive with every second. It was almost time, that couldn't matter, anymore. The villains had let a bunch of the other people out, and were going to move out themselves, so she needed to be ready to meet them.

Other-her helped her to her feet, and slipped the mask onto their own face, stepping into her.

 _Much better._

Tranquillity coursed through her, and a renewed sense of purpose. So much to consider… but not now. Now, she had a single task, and nothing else mattered until that was complete. It would be so simple to just shoot the target and leave, but this was number _four_ , a peaceful, unexpected death would be boring. Besides, she made normal bullets, and wouldn't use them on a target. And there were four allies, including the target. She had four shots. They didn't matter to her, no one would care if they died.

"One," the mask whispered. First through the door dropped, tall, bulky female. "Two," there went back left, the other female, through the building wall – their blood and part of the bullet went into some mousey brunette. Oops. And apparently nobody was going to react to the dead bodies. How blind were they?

"HeheHAHAHA _HAHA_."

One of the heroes had still gone after her. They were dumb, and it was so tempting to just shoot them, but then… she would be angry with… herself? No, focus. This was just a bit extra to keep track of while performing her task.

Dodge, duck, plant feet and aim – "THREE." She stated with force. All the civilians shifted as if they were seeing the dead bodies and blood for the first time. So did some of the heroes. Oblivious weirdos. Still, that was the tall one down, just prince-y left, who was looking her way. Finally, someone with some peripheral awareness.

Flip, cartwheel one handed. Duck. Duck, duck left, knock a blow to one side. Something kept twitching at her muscles, but there were already locked up, so that minor extra annoyance wasn't impacting her at all. Prince-y was holding their hands up in some weird ritual now. On the back of their head. Dropping a weapon like that was dumb, and they should feel dumb.

Knee the distraction in the groin, even if it didn't seem to do much, and they just kept flying. Duck, duck… goose?

No. Bad other-her. Focus.

"FOUR!" The mask declared, piercing impossibly through the sounds of three giant monsters growling. Or whining. One of the two. It also went through one of the dogs, which had happened to be in the way. Her target's forehead glowed an arcane blue. A moment later, a sparrow glided free in a spray behind them.

Hmm, still a bit too slow, but it didn't matter given the distance. Thankfully he didn't have – or, rather, _hadn't_ _had_ any kind of super speed. There had been some weird snag part way, the bullet passing through space that wasn't connected for 0.012 seconds. That had shifted it to one side, almost making it miss, but she hadn't aimed right at them for that reason. It was strange to just act off of instinct, and only know why afterwards.

Unlike her first kill of the day, no surge of discomfort coursed through her. Instead, a simple calmness. That had been much more professional, more dramatic. Still felt weird to have no pulse, or a heartbeat, but that didn't bother her. Hadn't bothered her before, no reason to let it just because she'd only noticed recently. Everything was more… in focus, like she was experiencing more of the world, but that just made her certain it was still muffled.

Taylor's distraction had flinched from her shout and shot a glance in time to see the target's head explode. They flinched again when she chambered four more rounds. Silly child, if she'd wanted them dead they would be. Now they were saying something, too. Well, they'd been saying things periodically, and before they'd attacked her, but now she was just ignoring them slightly less. There was another false distance between them, there had been the whole time.

She wasn't sure why. Every time they swung, the distance would snap back to normal. Once again, if she'd wanted to counterattack, they would be dead, so their snivelling precautions and audible discomfort were boring. Standard. Why couldn't they just – appreciate her painting, or whatever? Everyone in a mask had been there to stop the villains, and now they had been stopped – stylishly, at that! Of course, if they were a sensible person they wouldn't have charged at the person with a gun while unarmed.

Bloody kids, this was why she'd been happy with Armsmaster – reasonable reactions, and immediate action to minimise risk and investigate the cause. Enough distraction to validate her existence through the appreciation of her work, but not enough to leave him a blubbering, confused wreck who seemed to be vastly regretting their life choices.

Also, all the others were approaching her in a decidedly unfriendly manner. Extremely cautiously, and visibly preparing for a fight. Seriously, no appreciation. Still, killing them would do more harm than good. It would be pointless, and forced, and there was no thrill in a forced show. From a pragmatic standpoint, killing her audience was _also_ a dumb idea. Also, from a personal one, because her brain was still freaking out about the idea of doing that.

Stupid brain. It had been fine with the other seven. Why was killing suddenly a bad thing?

Well, if she wasn't fighting, might as well leave. The shortest one, who was manipulating the distances, had made a giant circle around each of the dead bodies that no one could enter, apparently having learned from her trap last time. Smart. Sucked to be her, though, because that bullet hadn't contained another trap, this time it was in the prepared note – had to mix things up or she might become predictable.

Now, how to mess with the blonde annoyance that had been attacking her the whole time?

"Yes, the gun is ironic."

Suitably pointless, and the mask's voice was decently intimidating. Mission accomplished, then. Taylor turned to leave, only to spin right back around, pointing the gun at her attacker's face as they shifted towards her, and making some ungodly squeak that was probably meant to sound intimidating. They startled and froze.

"My critics are… usually short lived. Is it truly your place to criticize?"

More spatial warping shenanigans, and they were _still_ talking. Best to leave before it could actually affect anything. A note 'accidentally' fell out of her pocket as she lurched away in a run. It was still strange the way her body kept disagreeing with her. The leg that had let out that crumpling noise kept making smaller ones, and bending in a weird way, but that wouldn't be enough to slow her down.

Four minutes later, Taylor was hidden, and the mask came off. No explosion. They hadn't picked up her paper yet, then.

The familiar calmness left her as the mask left her face, and her whole body started shaking – single, irregular heartbeats shunting through her body at an abnormal rhythm. That was new. But it was also supposed to happen? Not worth thinking about, same as the droplets of water on her cheek that were making it hard to see. She took an actual breath, albeit a shallow one. A strange feeling. Despite the weirdness, and confusion, she was content.

As always, her next target was clear – but distant, faint. Not far away, only a few kilometres, but the stage wasn't ready. Her performance just then had been an impulse, and that was unprofessional of her. No, it would be a while until she next took action, especially since she could feel something big coming. Until then, it was time to try and solve her resource issue.

* * *

By the time she was done with it, the house was a mess, and her head still had that obnoxious fog. However, things were a bit clearer. It was still really hard to think, because of the fog, and everything was jumbled, but she had everything she would need, and all that was left was the days long, painstaking process of assembling everything correctly. There was plenty of time for that, with only one problem. Her father would be home, soon. While disassembling every electronic in the house, she hadn't thought very far ahead while in a mindless, obsessive daze. Something vaguely came to mind, from a memory – something about a Tinker daze?

Either way, she couldn't exactly put all the electronics and bits of metal back. She needed those. And shooting her father was a bad idea, because she didn't want to, and it would lead to questions. If she ran away, it could be avoided? Or left and showed up later? Then he'd think the house was robbed. Hmm, that could work, she'd just have to very thoroughly hide her work and materials, which could be more trouble than it was worth, if the police came around to check the house. Which they probably would, but then again, it _was_ Brockton Bay, home of everything going wrong on a regular basis.

Well, she did have a backpack. Not quite sturdy enough to carry everything. That's what limbs were for. The only part that might prove difficult was the makeshift hextech anvil, which was a rather large and unwieldy size. Weight wasn't an issue, but the thing wouldn't fit through doors, and Taylor wanted to keep damage to what was formerly her home to a minimum. Some strange sense of obligation. Oh, who cared. Even she was starting to consider the whole thing a waste of time. Just out through the basement wall, and bam – a house still stable, if one that no longer had functioning electronics.

…

…

Or one of its loadbearing walls, which she wasn't sure why she'd disassembled. It was impressive the roof hadn't fallen inwards yet.

Taylor moved downstairs and started gathering her stuff. Being able to see a bit of her old life clearly let her compare it to her new one, and the old one had sucked. Might as well embrace change.

Farewell, old life of hers. It had been… shockingly tolerable.

* * *

"Alright… it wasn't a total loss, team. We all escaped unharmed, and so did the civilians. Hellhound's dogs were surprisingly tranquil."

His speech probably would've been more impactful if his voice wasn't trembling and everyone else wasn't shell-shocked. Each in their own different ways, of course. Vista was still fuming, feeling betrayed at being ordered to not engage Shadow Stalker's murderer, and even more betrayed by him supporting that decision. The only saving grace had been reminding her that using a shaker power wouldn't be 'engaging', since she could do so 'accidentally'. Kid Win was tinkering away, disassembling and reassembling part of his canon. A nervous tick. Clockblocker was just silent.

Gallant was the most interesting, and not in a good way. He just kept shaking. Being surrounded by so much negativity probably didn't help.

None of them were ready to cope with what had happened. Neither was he, but he didn't have a choice for the moment, and was forcing it down as best he could. He had a debriefing to do.


	5. Imp

**Thank you all for your feedback, likes, and/or just reading the story :) Hope you enjoy!**

* * *

Taylor smiled lightly, and sipped at the hot chocolate in her hand. A moment's tranquility, that served absolutely no purpose. One of many she'd had, over the last week, ever since her heart had started beating again.

That had been a rude shock, when it hadn't been a brief thing, and instead her pulse had actually started. And being 'alive' again was awful, because now her thoughts were so much less perfect, and she could make mistakes. Like having dropped her empty notebook at the finale of her previous performance at the… bank, rather than the note like _she'd intended to_. But being alive also brought a certain clarity, like knowing she'd have to commit to her mistakes. Actors who forgot their lines only stood out if they weren't good at improv.

Setting up some nonsense excuse to give off the hint would also be pointless, given the magnitude of her next stage. Most of the deaths wouldn't be noticed for some time, and she could feel she'd have to do a couple at once. And… something else, so dreadfully unclear. Her present was alive, but the future was mostly lost to her, only vague understanding of what she'd need to do. Sure, both sets of her broken memories agreed that was normal, but not being able to read the script put a plug on proper rehearsing. Thankfully, she knew she had enough props.

The first few days of being alive again had sucked, because her body had been weird, and she kept almost passing out from oxygen deprivation. Food and water had been a pain, but shoving a gun in someone's face did wonders to convince them to part with a water bottle or a bag of crisps. She even had enough spare normal bullets to shoot the occasional moron who decided to 'hold the line'. Not a performance, and calling it a promotional event would be hollow. Taylor was doing it because she found it fun. While revulsion was still present, the two halves of her had come to some weird, negotiated agreement that she hadn't been there for, and didn't entirely understand, but basically meant to not kill people needlessly, and to not kill 'heroes'.

But after a bit of practice actually being normal, rather than just going through the motions, it was quite relaxing. Even if most of the time she was working on her tools, she'd been making time to go out and… do normal things. Sometimes people 'recognized her', which at first meant a couple of insults from teenagers, but could also mean running in fear and/or calling the police. Or Protectorate. Occasionally that didn't happen, which was good, because she wasn't in costume. Sure, Whisper was a recognizable prop, but come one! Have some respect for a poor actress enjoying a break from time to time.

Still, the appreciation from her next stage would make all the ignorance worth it.

Of her tools, she'd cannibalized the scope and finished the extended barrel for Whisper, since the scope couldn't see through walls properly any more. Another downside of being alive. But, now the gun actually had recoil – well, it always _had_ , she just hadn't been able to feel it – and the cold metal was familiar to her touch. She had plenty of bullets, and a handful of traps, but hadn't been bothered to finish the costume.

There was not an elegant cape, to shield her from rain, and boots to make her footsteps more uniform, but no real shirt or pants yet. Armor always took time to make, and while it would be productive, she was enjoying the few moments of humanity. There really was no other word for what she was doing – sipping a hot chocolate with the scraps of poems in front of her.

(Five marionettes remaining,)

(To guard a lock with no door)

(Slave to their own visibility)

(Soon there were only four)

Ugh, in a way, she was glad that one hadn't seen the light of day. It was so… pointless. Interpretive. And rereading it she always got the placement of 'lock' and 'door' confused, because of traditional sentence structure, meaning it didn't even rhyme that well! It was all centered around the word 'visibility', and the rest was basically pointless. She'd have to look over her next ones to make sure they weren't awful. And since she'd dropped the wrong thing, there hadn't even been a trap in her notebook! Gods, that had been such a mess, especially after such a well-rounded performance.

There were a few other things she was excited for. Wind, snapping against her face as she gazed down the barrel, the sharp impact of cement beneath her feet, a chance to appreciate the heat of her gun… overall, the positives outweighed the negatives. And now that her two halves were somewhat in agreement, and somewhat balanced, Taylor had been able to compensate for the forgetful obliviousness of being alive.

"Care for a refill?" A waiter asked her. She nodded, and the man made his way back behind the till with the same dead look he'd always had. It had been one of the first café's she'd visited, a small family business with good produce. Far more importantly, the owner hadn't given a damn he was being held at gunpoint, shrugging and going about his business. Then again, he'd muttered something about 'not getting paid enough for this', so maybe he wasn't the owner – but there had been no other employees so far, and only a handful of customers.

There were also only three things on the menu, so it was probably some kind of money laundering scam. Either way, she'd become somewhat of a regular. He hadn't even called the police, or let anyone know, he just made her drinks and nodded when she arrived or left.

Another fresh hot chocolate was set down in front of her, an elegant swan made out of froth on top. Just as tasty as the last few. It was a nice place, really. The bitterness of the chocolate really brought out the sourness of the milk. One set of her memories kept insisting that wasn't a thing, the chocolate was disgusting, and that's why no one else went to the café, so maybe 'taste' being a new thing was an influence on her.

Being two people was… indescribable, especially since, at the same time, she was neither of them. Just doing the best she could with what memories she could scrounge together. Probably for the best, since one of her wasn't from the world she was in, and the other had died screaming when Taylor had first woken up. That had been confusing, because without both sets of memories, she'd just assumed that everyone thought that way, and it was actually her. Even then, without Three's weird dimensional split, that confusion probably would've stayed.

But, enough of her introspection, she decided with a sigh. Three hot chocolates doing nothing but contemplating her existence and new-found feelings was enough for the day. Leaving an elegant paper crane on the table, in the same spot she had the last three times she'd been there, Taylor left. A bit of a mystery what the employee was doing with them, since they were rigged to detonate on touch, with enough force to take down the building.

Her first time that hadn't been intentional, just the result of idle handling of both paper and bullets at the same time. Afterwards she'd done it out of principal, because he hadn't even mentioned the attempted murder, and he had off-handedly mentioned her robbing him, so had he just not noticed? But if not, what had happened to the other cranes? This one was marked with a tracking agent, but with her scope now mostly broken, that would only serve as a vague indicator.

As usual, people shot her weird looks as she walked by, some of recognition, but usually not. Even in the slums, apparently having one of her eyes unhealed after being half-eaten by a maggot was unusual. But no one confronted her this side of town; since most of the people were criminals themselves they wouldn't call the police, and no one had been dumb enough to try to mug her yet.

Maybe that had something to do with the gun at her side. Or the knife still in her shoulder. Huh, hadn't taken that out since 'Two', apparently. Or if she had, someone else had stabbed her without her noticing. Either way, she didn't care, and the wound usually didn't bleed, and she was pretty sure the wound had already scabbed over, no point reopening it. Just because she was alive didn't mean she felt pain or cared about her body. It had already died twice, technically. Once by being eaten alive in the locker, a second time when she'd gone months without eating or drinking, and only breathing before speaking.

Now, the boardwalk, on the other hand – that was usually more hassle than it was worth. Last time security guards had initially been very concerned for her, and then very angry and pulled out their guns. There were a few less security guards around, but that didn't stop it from happening every time she went, so it usually wasn't worth the bother. Especially since people kept calling the Protectorate, so she had to keep leaving. One half of her was _very_ adamant about not hurting people in the Protectorate, even though she'd already killed one of them. People, right?

Plus, the constant cameras were a nuisance. Again, people, she wasn't performing. Plus, if someone was stupid enough to try to film one of her performances as a bystander, she would object in the form of a bullet. Doing that was only okay if they were at least participating, and getting shot was technically participating. Thankfully, that hadn't happened yet.

Which was her main current thought. It would be three more weeks, until her next stage was properly set. One half of her was somewhat disgruntled, but accepting of the concept. The other half was all professionalism, and content to wait for the big splash. But overall… she _wanted_ to kill again, to put on some minor performance. It was itching away at her, but not as a need. As a want. And it had been a long time since she'd actually wanted anything. Her only problem with that was that it would have to be once of her targets. She'd shot a bunch of people since the last one, but it wasn't the same.

A public, dramatized execution – random security guards gaining a hole in their face just didn't compare. Public eye wasn't on random security guards. People didn't care. But that was the conundrum, because Taylor wasn't sure if the next target would do something of note before the big stage in three weeks, and while killing it… no, _her_ , the target deserved that much – would be satisfying, all parts of her agreed it needed drama.

She was a performer, at unfortunately-still-beating heart. And gods, she still wasn't used to the whole 'beating' thing.

Another long sigh escaped her, and she sat down on a nearby bench.

Across the street from her, her next target was taking a bunch of people's wallets, with them somehow not noticing. Some weird sheen was around them, and half of Taylor couldn't see them, but the other half knew exactly where she was, with deadly accuracy. Her gun had idly risen to point at Five, but with a slight frown, she twitched the gun as she fired. A bullet nicked the gravel a step-in front of her.

The lady looked up in panic, which turned into confusion, then panic again. Taylor made eye contact, then jerked her gun to one side, in a clear 'leave' gesture. She obliged with a frightened scamper – as did the man whose wallet she'd just stolen, apparently still not noticing who had actually been shot at. Like at her last performance. One set of her memories was insisting it was something called a 'stranger', but people were stupid, so it could happen either way. To be fair, Five was hard to notice for the… living? Half of her.

A third sigh. According to her memories of literature, however faint, something fairly characteristic of teenagers such as herself. Something called 'melodrama'.

…

In the distance, sirens. Apparently, there were some things you could do, even in the slums, for people to risk calling the police. Or they'd heard the gunshot. Nothing but a nuisance, and a sign it was time for her to leave. Again, her gun snapped up to point at her fifth target – through two buildings and slightly behind her – but no. Even though her patience had been fading, part of being alive, it was important that things were done correctly, when they mattered.

It was strange, feeling melancholic. Not having an immediate purpose, or task. Like that numbness she'd felt for months after first waking up, but worse, because now things weren't numb. Now things were very much in focus.

Besides, even if she did kill Five, six _wouldn't_ be here until the stage was. Impatience would be pointless, and she'd have to wait anyway. Didn't mean she had to like it. But she'd try. That was why she'd been hitting up cafes, so maybe if she did other things, the time would go by a bit faster?

Or not, because the movie theatre she'd idly wandered towards had just been replaced by a crater in front of her. That was disheartening. And now a bunch of people were screaming and crying, too. Eugh, people. A bunch of booms went off in the distance, and that was annoying, because now firing her gun to get people to shut up wouldn't work. It didn't _usually_ work, but still. Go get a different stick.

Well, whatever. That was a decent sign of her having done enough loafing around for the day. Back to the lab, she supposed.

* * *

The explosions hadn't really stopped, though they had died down a bit. Less frequent, now, but still a lot of background noise. Pretty calming, actually – the dull thud and slight twitch in the ground was relaxing, and hadn't annoyed her that much in the following days of work. Taylor hadn't taken many breaks like she'd been trying to, but she'd still done recreational things, and not solely work. She just hadn't gone outside, for the annoyance of explosives.

Despite the instincts from one half of her, it was safer to stay in one relatively secure spot during a bombing than it was to leave. There was no real chance of a bomber targeting the empty, wrecked warehouses she was building things in, but trying to get somewhere 'safer', with more people, just meant being a bigger target. Plus, just walking across a street gave much higher odds of being hit. It didn't particularly matter, Taylor just didn't want the inconvenience of trying to avoid them, and she'd found something fun to do while inside.

It was probably stupid, and a waste of time and resources, but she was enjoying carving things into the metal. Not in the artistic sense, or in any real metal, she was just enjoying carving things and leaving gashes in the side. In other news, the random, run-down warehouse was officially in worse shape than it had been when she'd decided to move in. Given the number or spiderwebs and collapsed infrastructure, that wasn't an easy feat. No more walls had collapsed, unfortunately. The destruction was… cathartic.

That probably said something about her as a person, which the living half of her very much agreed with, but they could shut up because they enjoyed it as much as the rest of her.

On the more practical note, her costume was done, barring shoes, which she didn't know how to make from scratch. Now her chest had a lot more bulk, she looked much more professional, the mask went over a black, metal mesh, and everything looked less out of place. Whisper fit snugly in a groove on her shoulder plates when the barrel was attached, and could click into her belt if she ever needed both hands available.

Everything fit like… well fitting clothing. Saying 'like a glove' would be a bit misleading, given parts were intentionally loose or padded, whereas her gloves were very much skintight. Taylor had also taken the time to carve her slightly revised poem into metal slates, each of a different shape, so she wouldn't screw it up again. Paper would've worked, but she'd have had to go get paper, while there was a lot of rusted metal in her surroundings, and pristine metal from her spare bullets.

There were far too many bullets. Nine cursed, sixteen normal. She only had five more targets… so she'd probably gone a bit overboard, but again, something inside of her knew that was the right amount. Also two more traps, but hose weren't portable, she'd gone with her instincts and essentially made them a part of the warehouse walls. One normal trap, half completed due to lack of fine enough materials, and ultimately unneeded. Everything she could do or needed to do was done, and there were still eighteen days of waiting ahead of her, with _maybe_ #5 to kill.

No real pattern, due to an unstable home life, barring frequent visits to graveyard. Most days so far, but she hadn't been watching long enough to establish a pattern. Plenty of muggings using the stranger effect that she had to keep reminder herself existed, and that no, people weren't just oblivious. Just a girl, really, if one that didn't seem to have many prospects in front of her. Five had also gone to the PRT HQ twice, but didn't… seem to be a ward.

Taylor was certain five had done more notable things than that, but she hadn't been watching too closely. She'd probably take her out in a week or two, if the bombs didn't stop, to make herself a bit more relevant again. The only problem was killing a stranger could easily go unnoticed – maybe the next time she went to the Protectorate building? A shot through the wall could work, and Armsmaster would get that adorable face again, so that was a benefit.

The warehouse doors opened behind her, breaking Taylor's concentration. She looked over at the mish-mash group of villains entering, utterly unaware of what they were doing. Their 'leader' seemed just as unsure, because they all froze when they saw her.

"Uh… I'm going to assume you're not Bakuda."

A slow shake of the head.

There was some muttering amongst the group, but she tuned it out, trying to identify who she was looking at. Definitely some members of the Empire, but also some weird slug monster and… Skimdark? No, Skidmark. As if on cue to her thoughts, Skidmark started cussing repeatedly, and yelling at the Empire members for wasting their time.

Thankfully, the group hadn't triggered her traps, because they weren't meant for them and she couldn't afford to replace them. Then again, Taylor hadn't set them up anywhere near the door, just… two random points on the wall. She wasn't sure why.

After a few moments of their yelling getting louder, Taylor fired a shot to get their attention. It went through the weird platform of cement one of the capes was floating on, sending her to the ground with a yelp. It also worked in getting them to shut up.

 _Fifteen_.

She hummed and pointed her gun slightly to the side of them. They seemed suitably in awe of it's deafening, destructive capabilities – and some of them also seemed to recognize her and were getting angry. Was the Empire still upset she'd killed the… Ultra white one? Alabaster. Right, that had been his name. Wow, petty much.

"You're that bitch who killed Alabaster!"

Oh, that was the giant metal one… Hookwolf? Slow off the mark, much, and it would be annoying to have to kill them. Hopefully they'd leave, which was good, because all the other ones were trying to talk Hookwolf down, because they were 'busy', and had 'more urgent things to do'. Probably best to withhold the urge to taunt them.

Still, she was getting a bit riled up by all the bombings. It was a stage, but not hers, and so soulless. Impressive in scale, yes, but there was nothing to it. There had been, for a while, when the bombs had first taken out a bunch of innocents, but you were supposed to build from that into a crescendo, not just keep blowing things up.

And now one of them was asking if she would help them take out the bomb tinker, even while Hookwolf was still glaring murder at her. That was just rude. It was so tempting to fire again… one of them would even work as her sixth target, but no. There was an order, and six was important. Six, eight and nine mattered a lot more than the others – no, that wasn't right. They mattered more _directly_ than the others, their deaths would have more impact.

They seemed to understand her pointing her gun at their faces. Some of them got angry, others held up their hands placatingly, either way they left.

She pulled out the next bit of her poem and looked it over with a sigh. She was starting to get stir crazy, and despite her efforts, it was still bad.

 **(Four seeks a talk)**

 **(I just aim to paint)**

 **(Strikes accord, but can't afford)**

 **(The cost, which sends her faint)**

Urgh, she could never let that see the light of day. Why was it so much worse than the start of her poem had been? It didn't make sense, and barely worked. Honestly misleading, and relied a lot on Four deciding to chat with her, which was unlikely, despite what a part of her was insisting. Being alive was starting to get a bit annoying… things had been so clear before. The verse she'd come up with for number three was even worse!

 **(Three of the hatchlings,)**

 **(They near their last day)**

 **(No longer a predator)**

 **(The kite falls to prey)**

Gods, she wasn't hunting birds. The metaphor was way too dragged out. At least the rest of the poem was decent, but she really needed to work on those two.

At least it gave her something to do for the next few days.


End file.
